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early morning in the desertWell. Last Thursday, things did not go as planned

Well, unless the plan was to spend 3 hours in the desert trying to reach my source and hoping he was just running late (he wasn’t), things did not go as planned.

The appointment had been to find out about an active search for a 21-year-old man who disappeared approximately 7 weeks ago. I’d spoken to the man leading that day’s trip and tracked down the phone number of the missing man’s father, who’d come to Tucson from Tennessee in hopes of finding answers, the original tip coming from a mass email:

“Could you please run on the [humanitarian organization] site a notice that there is a father here from [a southern state] who has been looking for his 21 yo son left by his group 5 weeks ago and please call and take him out if people have time?…He has been here in Tucson for five weeks, living on the street and searching daily…He’s been sent a map of where to look but it’s a very bad map from the person who was with his son and was apprehended and deported. The map maker would like to be paid for a better map……..BTW, he’s already checked the morgue (negative) and I will check hospitals today.”

Then a week later, a notice that more help with the search was coming from San Diego “for his 21 year old son…who was left behind in the desert, ‘en mala condicion’ on April 18.”

My goal was to hike out with the searchers and find out how their location and recovery work is different from that of the volunteers who provide humanitarian aid through water drops and rescue patrol. It would be a bonus if I could also find out more about the stories of the missing man and his father – especially how he traced someone in the group to get a map.

But planning ahead was no match for crossed wires and cell signal issues – one phone went straight to voicemail, the other to a recording that the user could not get calls or take messages. (I’m still trying to get through on one line or the other, and am optimistic I’ll reach the expert from San Diego as we’d played telephone tag before a few years ago while I was finishing my original story for News21 – yet I regret to say that my hopes of reaching the father are rapidly diminishing.)

Border Patrol vehicles get gas at Three Point, Arizona's Robles JunctionI was half an hour early for our 6am appointment. By 8am I’d counted over 30 Border Patrol vehicles alone – and I was realizing I would probably need to go back to my original posting plans. The break in the usual programming was not going to be necessary after all. A few phone calls and mobile google mappings and I pulled out of the parking lot half an hour later resigned to the 2.5 hour solo drive home, all if which with my tail between my legs and hoping no one would notice I was back more than a little early.

About a mile east I pulled over and looked at the map again. With my north Phoenix apartment as the starting point, I was over 75% of the way to Sasabe if I continued south on the 286 between BANWR and the Tohono O’odham Nation. And from there I could drive eastwards on the twisty Arrivaca Road to pick up the I19 which connects Nogales back to Phoenix through Tucson. And I already had the day off…

flowering tree on Hwy 286 between Three Points and SasabeI decided to go exploring.

I’d come this way twice before, in winter and midsummer, and now the land was lusher and filled with the colors of thick bushes to slowly bleaching grasses. Diamond warning signs for floods and fire gave hints at the volatility of the valley landscape that rolled along either side of the highway beneath the eyes of parallel mountain ranges while border patrol checkpoints and white private security buses hinted at other kinds of volatility.

With no goals or appointments I was free to move slowly and notice details along the nearly empty like fully flowering trees or ringed roadside shrines.

I took the trip in pieces, regaining the familiar lines of the metro Phoenix skyline as the heavy summer sun begins to slide onto the horizon. Back in my apartment for the night with my shoes by the front door I checked the day’s mileage for this trip to and along a sliver of the U.S.-Mexico border between Arizona and Sonora and it clocked in at just over 460 miles.

view of Baboquivari Peak from Hwy 286 between Three Points and Sasabe between Sasabe and Nogales on Arivaca Road between Sasabe and Nogales on Arivaca Road


View Larger Map

between Three Points and Sasabe

This post is cross posted with my other blog, Missing from Mexico.

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Confession: daylight savings has always managed to confuse me. It always seems to approach when I least expect it, I never know which way it goes and I’m still confused as to how it makes more or less daylight. Then I moved to Arizona – and there’s no daylight savings here. The state stays on Mountain Standard Time year round. Well, except for the Navajo Nation, which does go onto daylight savings (because it spreads across three states). Except for the Hopi Nation, which is completely surrounded by the Navajo Nation. But in most of the state the time of day is the time of day year round.

There’s a link between time and place. From Mothers’ Days to Independence days, every community has its own versions of the same celebrations. Some, like Christmas, are celebrated on the same day worldwide while others like Father’s Day can vary by region. There’s even a few that do both: there’s the New Years that restarts everyone’s calendar year and then there’s the Chinese New Years and the Water Festivals and Rosh Hashanah.

Switching hemispheres means even switching seasons and as we change places, we change holidays too. Sometimes we even go to a place because of their Mardis Gras or Carnival.

For me, that means spending Christmas at my parents house includes television ads about summer blowout sales for swimwear and other summertime wares, though the temperatures may be nearly equal in summer Taupo and winter Phoenix. Either way, my Kansas winter coats haven’t left their box in the years since we’ve left.

For my parents, the relocation has been longer and deeper. My mother’s birthday is now in fall. And my father has started doing something he never did before. He spends each April 25 walking with other veterans.

How do travel and holidays relate to you – do you go somewhere every Thanksgiving or have you ever dreamed of being somewhere on a certain day? What holidays would you carry with you wherever you go?

Poppies 1
photo credit : James Pratley

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Since moving to Phoenix, we’ve only been back to Kansas once – a lightening quick holiday tour of four cities where friends and family live, in wicked winter driving conditions and with an international flight out of Phoenix’s Sky Harbor to catch within hours of getting back to Arizona. It was a good but hardly thoughtful trip, a blur of hugs & faces & snow under that familiar big Midwest sky.

This time we flew back (thanks to an unbelievable sale on airfare). Cutting out four days of driving gave us more time, and there were fewer deadlines and less homework to keep track of.

Should it have felt like a trip home?

It didn’t.

As we drove through places so familiar, I felt recognition but not nostalgia. I realized that even as we pulled out in the U-Haul just over two years ago, the house my family owned for 20 years was already becoming past and I had to remind myself to take one last look in the side view mirror, in case I wanted that memory for later, just before we slid around the corner.

Today, I can show what matters most to me about Kansas in a single photo of my cousin’s bookshelf.

This is why, wherever I end up, I’ll be drawn back from time to time, making the drive or taking the flight.

And from now on, this is the time of year I want to visit. The green of summer is at its lushest, the rivers are high and the earliest fields are beginning to boast hay bales instead of faded corn. In a far more modest way than the flashy bright pinks and oranges of the desert sky, the sunsets can be spectacular.

OK. Maybe there’s a little bit of nostalgia after all.

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Written in April 2010 by my mother, Ellen Kroeker, and shared here with her permission

***

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Poppies with new camera

The Ode comes from “For the Fallen,” a poem by the English poet and writer Laurence Binyon and was published in London in The Winnowing Fan: Poems of the Great War in 1914. This verse, which became the “Ode for the Returned and Services League,” has been used in association with commemoration services in Australia since 1921.

Turkey - Asia Minor in 1849

Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection

We were at the Dawn Parade for ANZAC day today, a big occasion here. April 25 might be one of the most sacred days in New Zealand. While it is in honor of all service personnel, it is mostly a commemoration of Gallipoli, a devastating battle in Turkey during WWI, and an honoring of those who died there. Our friend (89, former British Royal Navy WWII and son of a man wounded in Gallipoli) wanted us to go with him and we did.

When the white haired men march behind the kilted pipes and drums through the dark autumnal morning, one can feel the ghosts of the slaughtered young men hovering around them. Surrounding them as they stand in a great circle for the service, families hold their babies, teenagers with poppies pinned to them jostle, albeit quietly , and one is aware that these are the descendents of those who served and connected to those who died. About 100,000 New Zealanders served in World War I out of a population of less than a million. The man in front of me, the woman beside me wiped tears throughout the service. The morning was mild and as they all marched away, first the old veterans, then some whose hair was not completely white and finally, bringing up the rear, the snappily dressed young ones, the rosy fingered dawn spread across the sky.

Map of Indochina including Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and Thailand

Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection

Gil, who grew up on Sunday night documentaries that extolled the heroism of those who fought in WWII and listened to his father’s stories from his time in the South Pacific during that war, always wanted to be on the side of the good guys, to fight the kind of people who were responsible for the Holocaust and for Pearl Harbor. These were the myths that he grew up with. There were no other narratives presented.

So the little Gil listened, learned, and when he grew up, he dedicated his life to being one of those good guys. But the enemies were shadowy and some seemed to be in his own government, the men of government who sent young men into the Vietnamese jungles for dubious purposes. It wasn’t a clean or clear war as WWII had seemed to be. Still, he had made a commitment and he had to meet his obligations.

1972 population map of Vietnam from Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection

1972 population map of Vietnam from Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection

When he was presented with an alternative (if you go back to Vietnam, I’ll divorce you, said his then-wife; if you don’t go to Vietnam, we will court-martial you, said the Navy), he went to Vietnam and, back in the jungle, with hostile fire around him, he got his “Dear John” letter, informing him that the divorce was going ahead.

And when he returned to the States with his discharge papers much later, there were no parades, no heroes’ welcomes. He was no one’s hero. Change out of your uniform, he was advised. Try to travel incognito, as if no one would recognize a military haircut in the days of long-haired hippies. He opened his green footlocker and packed all the medals and citations away.

This week, Laurie, our older friend and the Royal Navy veteran, urged Gil to pull out the medals, pin them to his chest and march in the Dawn Parade. Gil said it wasn’t his military, it wasn’t his occasion. Laurie said, come on and Gil doesn’t easily say no to Laurie, this cheerful man who once introduced Gil to someone as his “other son.” So we got up at 5 am, and while Gil put his ribbons on, they were nearly undetectable under his jacket. Gil was introduced to others at the gathering place as former LT of the US Navy and welcomed as such.

Wellington, New Zealand - credit : Ellen Kroeker

The kilted bagpipers and drummers swung into place, and the white heads, male and female stood to attention under the instructions of a very quavering voice. They turned on command, the drums began, the pipes began a mournful tune, and, with fragmented step, they marched off to the town center and the cenotaph for the Dawn Service. There, among the Brits, the Maoris, the Scots with their family tartan colors, the Irish, marched one American, slightly uncomfortable, slightly at home, as always. Along the side of the marching column walked wives and husbands, children and grandchildren.

On one corner, a small boy was riveted by the parade of heroes.

Poppies 1
photo credits : Fleur Phillips & James Pratley

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I went down to the coffee shop near my house tonight, and noticed while walking over that the wind was picking up and the air smelled different. Since the coffee shop was crowded, I found an empty chair outside and enjoyed the rapidly dropping temperature. Wind whipped into the complex’s courtyard bringing electricity with it and sure enough, lightning started soon after.

At this time last year I learned how quickly a torrential downpour can burst out of nowhere, so I grabbed my bag, magazine and drink and headed home, noticing how many of my neighbors had their windows open on the way. Sure enough, by the time I’d made it up two flights of stairs and started opening my own windows, fat drops had started spattering the screens.

Unfortunately, my cat, Antonya, was far less impressed by these exciting developments than I had hoped. As the sound of the pavement getting soaked and voices of people caught in the downpour drifted up, she turned her back on the window and is now sleeping on her favorite chair with a distinctly offended attitude.

But we haven’t been able to open the windows in months, so I’m stubbornly thrilled that there’s air moving through the rooms and not just because of the constant ceiling fans. Things have settled down now, and people are returning to their porches and sidewalks, but there’s still splashes each time a car goes by, and a fresh breeze…

While the break in the heat will probably only be temporary till October, nothing clears the air like a good storm.

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It’s cool tonight – down to 102! – and Phoenicians on bikes, myself included, take to the streets to celebrate :)

Love that it’s cooler, that I think 102 is cooler now, and that there were more pedestrians and bikers in the street on the way home tonight than cars… I’ve said it before but there are beautiful sunsets here – they reflect in the glass on the office buildings – and I’m still not tired of palm trees.

We dropped our bikes off at the apartment and hit the road in the dusk and on the way to the car Steven caught up w me, kissed my neck, and said my sweat tastes good…

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It’s so green here…

If it’s hard to remember the searing heat of the desert within air conditioned Nogales houses or even chilly Phoenix newsrooms, it’s impossible to remember so many miles away in the lush countryside of Pennsylvania. Yet the same story that led me south repeatedly is now bringing me north for a few days.

When I get home there’s a few loose end interviews, then writing and editing, then more editing. At the moment that’s all very far away. I’m realizing how accustomed I’ve gotten to Phoenix, because I can’t stop noticing how different this is – after all, it’s so green here…

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Creative nonfiction, narrative journalism, long form reporting – whatever you call it, that’s what this week’s Must See Monday / Cronkite Conversation was about. As an aspiring writer myself, I’d been looking forward to this one ever since this semester’s event list came out. I didn’t know a lot about creative nonfiction, mostly just two things. I knew that it was included in KU’s new MFA program which one of my favorite professors at KU had worked hard to set up. Also, to borrow a phrase, I know creative nonfiction – and appreciate it – when I see it.

Oh, and I know that creative nonfiction’s relationship with journalism is new and growing. There’s lots of discussions about how journalism is changing – are newspapers going to survive, must journalists master multiple media formats, and will stories go mobile? But change isn’t always dramatic. Reporters who are seeing their audience respond to creative nonfiction are learning how even more subtle changes can make a big difference. The definitions of creative nonfiction are well discussed all over the web (like here, here, here, and here) so I’ll cut to the chase : great advice from great writers.

Lee Gutkind Lee Gutkind is editor of Creative Nonfiction as well as being writer-in-residence for the Consortium For Science, Policy, and Outcomes and working with The Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing. Terry Greene Sterling is also writer-in-residence at ASUher blog is here and her newest book, Illegal, will be coming out this fall.

Lee Gutkind, Grandfather of Creative Nonfiction

Gutkind pointed out that with creative nonfiction, creative equals the dramatic part, and nonfiction equals the journalism and information part. “Every time you write a story, every single time you think about a story, you’re trying to draw the reader in as long as possible” – creative nonfiction is one way to do this, whether it’s personal narrative about the journalist or public narrative the journalist writes about others. Either way, the building blocks for creative nonfiction are scenes. Gutkind uses the yellow test – taking a favorite piece of writing and a yellow magic marker, then highlighting all the scenes.

“If you’re doing a serious story, 50 to 60 to 70 % should be scenes,” Gutkind said. “The way I work – I gather my information and think of the stories, and am constantly thinking of where the stories go.” He sits down and writes the scenes of the story, then looks for where the information goes and “the story determines the information you provide, the story determines the reportage – so instead of worrying about the reporting, I get the information the story needs.”

Gutkind doesn’t just work with journalists – when he’s not working on Creative Nonfiction, he’s applying creative nonfiction to other kinds of narrative like science and law through a mixture of classes and workshops. In fact, Gutkind said that in some ways it’s easier to teach scientists, historians and lawyers to start writing, since journalists are often very set in short, short formats – they must break familiar writing patterns to switch to creative nonfiction.

Terry Greene Sterling

For Sterling, narrative journalism equals telling true stories that matter…and that people love to read, and hear, and see, and interact with. It uses the techniques of fiction to tell true stories. She points out that you can’t be a good writer if you can’t be a good reporter since you have to have the material first – Sterling describes public records as “gold.” Also, narrative journalism doesn’t come easy and “you have to train yourself – train yourself every single day.” Sterling described narrative journalists as risk takers who “should learn something new very single day” and “see stories everywhere.”

Sterling organizes her work as she goes along by keeping running lists on the whole project and each section and going over her notes regularly. She said that her stories evolve during the reporting and then the framework comes together. Finally, it’s important to tell the reader how she got the story – it’s also tricky to work citations in to a narrative form. Writers like Sterling and Lane DeGregory, who don’t want to clutter the narrative put the attribution at the end.

During the questions and answers, two other attending journalists – New Times reporter Robrt Pela and freelance award winner Valeria Fernández – also answered questions about they organize their work. Fernández described her work as making a good meal – she gathers the ingredients, starts cooking, and gets more salt as needed. She uses “check on this” markers to get the story down. Pela calls these “apocryphal markers” and uses them for follow up interviews. I really appreciated this advice, and the rest of the evening. Coming back from break can be hard, but having the first day back end with inspiration sets a strong precedent for the rest of the semester.

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